Certainly Maurice felt in a somewhat embarrassing position, on hearing of Justinian’s offer to instal him as future King of Melnos, and he hardly knew what decision to make in the matter. At present the affair was so unexpected and bewildering that he hardly grasped the fact of its reality, and remained where he was, leaning against a pillar, wondering if he was asleep or awake. He had come to an unknown island of the Ægean Sea, and therein had beheld a miniature civilization of a most unique character, which in itself by its very fancifulness was enough to unsettle his calm reasoning powers, when lo! the man who had created this vision of dead classicism proposed to bestow it on him as a gift. There was something singularly tempting in this offer, especially to a man of Roylands’ artistic temperament; for here, in this sea-girt island, he could lead a life of dreamy seclusion, and work at his art amid these rejuvenated Hellenic times, which breathed all the serenity and calm necessary to foster the craving soul of genius. In the riotous modern world of England he had often felt like an alien, and his work, imbued with modernisms, seemed feeble and meretricious after those masterpieces of Greek art which still remain to remind us of the supremacy of Attic sculptors in delineating the human figure. Devoted to his art, had Maurice been asked by some fairy to name his desire, he would certainly have demanded to be placed in kindred circumstances, calm, untroubled, serene, to those masterly Athenian creators who adorned the Parthenon with god-like forms. Lo! without the intervention of an unseen power, his wish had been unexpectedly gratified, yet, now that the boon long dreamed of was gratified, he hesitated as to the advisability of accepting it.

It was difficult for him to make up his mind, from the very contrast of the two existences which lay before him, either of which he could begin from that moment, by a mere acceptance of the one or the other. On the one hand was the turbulent nineteenth century, full of invention, discovery, feverishness, anguish, ambition, like a terrible yet fascinating dream, which involved the straining of every nerve to attain a thankless end; and on the other hand were years of quietness, of dwelling in a modern paradise under a serene sky, with all the incentives to awaken and foster his artistic soul, a reconstruction of that calm Attic existence which seemed so far off and mist-like beyond the stormy waters of mediÆvalism and modern restlessness. Maurice, always impressionable to his surroundings, felt as did the Ulyssean sailors in the lotus-land, when they were loath to leave the drowsy island for fruitless toilings on the main; he thought this serene existence of Melnos, unvexed by the tumults of nations, was perfect: yet the ambitious spirit of the nineteenth-century interest in his being called out to him to come forward and take his place in the fierce fight for fame, for gold, for bread, which vexed the world of to-day. Peace or war—for social war it was in this modern struggle for existence—he did not know which to choose, and, leaning against that relic of the old classic times, when earth was young, fresh, and joyous, he dreamily pondered over the choice offered to him.

Had Keats, that born Greek, been offered the chance of dwelling in this Hellenic Elysium, how eagerly would he have accepted, and revelled in the serenity of the life, like one of his own young deities, who live so joyously in his delicate verse. Perhaps Heine, longing for the infinite charm of the antique on his mattress-grave in the Rue d’Amsterdam, might have accepted with joy this opportunity to dwell in the placid Greek world he loved so well, and of which he sang so mournfully, so exquisitely. But no!—Heine, bitter, dual soul as he was, had too much of Judaism in his soul to accept gladly a serene existence, unflavored by that bitter irony, those pen and ink wars, those modern sophistries in which his spirit delighted. Keats—yes! for he was a born Hellene. Heine—no! for the genius of the Jew fought ever with the genius of the Greek to master his soul, and his irony, his orientalism, his Shiraz roses, and blue Ganges, would have rendered him restless even under the changeless blue of the Attic skies, amid the divine beauty of serene Hellenic art.

Maurice was neither Keats nor Heine, yet partook of the nature of both. He was not a genius, having just escaped the fatal gift of artistic supremacy, still, he had a strong craving for the beautiful, a wish to create, a desire to know; but in his soul the blind craving of Keats for Beauty and Truth was marred by that fatal scepticism which blighted the genius of Heine. He had the faith of the one, the doubt of the other, and, drawn strongly either way by these opposing forces, paused irresolutely between the two. First he would accept and live the old Hellenic life, then he would refuse, lest such life should lack the sharp, salt flavor of modern existence. An ass between two bundles of hay was Maurice, but, unlike that animal, he knew that each bundle contained what the other lacked, and, greedy of both, doubtful of both, afraid of both, he was quite unable to make up his extremely unstable mind.

A man in such an embarrassing position always makes up his otherwise wavering mind to one thing, and that is, to ask advice, though in nine cases out of ten he never means to take it when given. Maurice was not sure if he would accept advice, yet nevertheless went to seek Crispin, in order to lay the matter before him, and ask what he thought was the best course for him to pursue. Crispin was wise, Crispin was friendly, and, moreover, had tried both the ancient and the modern modes of existence, as his youth had been spent in Melnos, his early manhood in civilized Europe; so surely Crispin, with a knowledge of both sides of the question, was the best to decide for the one or the other.

All the morning Crispin had been hard at work on a formidable-looking epistle to Eunice, in which he told all his perils and adventures, the departure from Southampton, the voyage down the Mediterranean, the wreck of The Eunice, and their safe arrival at Melnos. In addition to this narrative, worthy of Marco Polo at his best, he related the comforts in which he and Maurice were now dwelling, in order to set the mind of that gentleman’s friends at rest; but, with considerable craft, the wily poet did not put in any words of loverly affection, as he knew well the Hon. Mrs. Dengelton would read the letter before giving it to her submissive daughter.

In order to circumvent his future mother-in-law, Crispin intended to write a separate letter to Eunice, full of his passion, and then slip it into an epistle by Maurice, whom he intended to get to write to the Rector. Mr. Carriston was a friend to the lovers, and would doubtless be able to deliver the letter unseen by the dragon; thus Mrs. Dengelton would be thwarted should she try to destroy Eunice’s affection for the poet by keeping back his letters.

Near Crispin sat Gurt, at the open window, chewing the quid of reflection, and looking excessively dismal, as he found this semi-classical existence somewhat dull, and moreover, true seaman as he was, viewed a prolonged sojourn on land with much disgust. He brightened up, however, when Maurice came in, and twisted his forelock in approved forecastle fashion with a scrape of his foot.

“Which I ses t’ this ’ere gent,” growled Gurt in his raucous voice, “‘w’ere is he?’ meanin’ you, sir, and Mr. Crispin ses he, ‘Oh, he’s gone down t’ valley,’ so ses I, ‘He’ll see the crew,’ and ses he, ‘It’s werry likely.’“

“I’m very sorry, Gurt,” said Maurice in some dismay, “but the fact is, I’ve been exploring the village with Justinian, and quite forgot to see after our mariners.”

“I wish you had done so, Maurice,” said Crispin in a vexed tone, looking up from his writing; “the poor fellows will think we have forgotten all about them.”

“Oh, we will go down this afternoon,” replied Maurice hastily. “I’ve no doubt they are all right down there. Lots of food and liquor and pretty girls! eh, Gurt?”

Crispin laughed and stroked his chin thoughtfully, while a gleam of humor shone in the solitary eye of the mariner.

“I seed,” said Gurt, addressing no one in particular, “as light a little craft as I ever clapped eyes on, gents. Her deck lights raked me fore and aft, they did.”

“Justinian will rake you fore and aft,” observed Crispin dryly, “especially if you make eyes at his womankind. This is a virtuous island, Gurt.”

“Well, sir, I ain’t a-goin’ agin’ it, sir,” growled Gurt reproachfully. “I care nothin’ for the petticoats. I don’t. Now if it was Dick, now”—here the old sinner cast up his eyes, as if unable to guess at Dick’s enormities.

“Oh, that is the smart young boatswain,” said Maurice quickly. “I’m glad he is all right. Why don’t you go down and see him, Gurt?”

“Beggin’ your pardon, gents both, but I dunno the bearin’s of this ’ere island.”

“Go along the mulberry avenue,” said Crispin, as Gurt waited for an explanation, “and when you come to a flight of steps near the tunnel, go down them. When you’re in the village, you’ll soon find out your comrades, and tell them Mr. Roylands and myself will come down to see them this afternoon.”

“Right y’ are, sir,” answered the seaman, going to the door with another nautical salutation. “I don’t want Dick a-comin’ up here to cast anchor aside my little craft.”

“You’ve begun early, Gurt,” observed Maurice, taking a seat. “What is the name of your little craft?”

“Zoe, sir; she’s maid to Miss Helena.”

“Well, you can go away with a contented heart, Gurt,” said Crispin, laughing. “Dick won’t see her if he comes here in your absence. She’s gone up the mountain with her mistress.”

“Right y’ are, sir,” said Gurt again, all of him except his head behind the curtains of the doorway. “I don’t trust Dick. He’s a fly-away chap, gents both, and a deal sight too handsome for my idea, sirs.”

The head vanished, and Crispin laughed uproariously.

“That mahogany image is jealous, Maurice,” he said, throwing himself back in his chair. “Behold the power of love! Why, Zoe wouldn’t look at him; and if that good-looking young bo’swain comes on the scene, I’m afraid old Cyclops’ chance will be but a poor one.”

“Zoe’s gone up the mountain with Helena?”

“Yes; on some flower-gathering expedition. They have been absent some hours, so Caliphronas has gone to look for them.”

“Confound his impudence!”

“Why, you are as jealous of the mistress as Cyclops is of the maid! However, you need not be afraid, for Helena hates our Greek friend, and I shrewdly suspect she has taken an uncommon liking to you.”

“Nonsense!”

“It’s a fact, I assure you. Love in her eyes sits playing, so if you love her, and she loves you, no power can cut your love in two.”

“Except Caliphronas.”

“Yes, he is rather in the way; but I’ve no doubt Justinian will settle him. By the way, where is Justinian?”

“He left me at the steps, after making me a most extraordinary proposal.”

“Indeed! and this proposal?”

“I’ll tell you all about it shortly. What are you doing?”

“Writing to Eunice. This,” laying his hand on the letter, “is a proper epistle which might be published to all the world, and is prepared especially for the pacification of my dear mother-in-law that is to be. I, however, want you to write to our mutual friend, Mr. Carriston, and enclose a note of mine meant for the eyes of Eunice alone. The Rector is our friend, and will manage to give it to her unknown to Mrs. Dengelton.”

“Oh, I will write with the greatest of pleasure, and enclose your letter. Besides, I wish to ask the Rector’s advice on a very important matter.”

“I can guess what that important matter is,” said Crispin gayly; “but why not ask my advice?”

“I am going to, in a few minutes. By the way, to revert to the letters, how are you going to get them posted?”

“Oh, Justinian has a felucca laden with currants, silks, and what not, going to Syra to-morrow,—Syra, you know, is the great mercantile station of the Cyclades,—and these letters will go in charge of the skipper. From Syra they will easily go to England by the French packet, via Marseilles.”

“Have you any other letters to write—I mean about the shipwreck?”

“Of course; I have written to my solicitors, telling them all about the wreck, and instructing them to see the insurance people; but I suppose nothing can be done till I go back to town myself, and take all the survivors with me. They, I suppose, will have to give all kinds of evidence about the smash-up of The Eunice before the insurance money will be paid.”

“What about Martin’s relations and the dead sailors’?”

“I am writing about that also. By the way, Maurice, we must get Justinian this afternoon to take his men and go down to the sea-shore to look after the bodies of those poor fellows. It seems horribly heartless of us talking and laughing like we did last night, when so many human beings have lost their lives.”

“It does rather, Crispin; but if we had mourned it would not have made much difference. Hang it! that sounds rather cruel. Crispin, I am afraid a semi-barbaric life is making me heartless.”

The poet said nothing, but, with a sad expression on his face, stared at the table. It did seem heartless for them both to be light-hearted and merry when Martin and the majority of his brave crew had gone to the bottom; but there was some excuse, for they themselves had narrowly escaped a similar fate, and that in itself was enough to make them buoyant. After all, the dead are dead, and crying will not bring them back; but both the Englishmen determined to search for the bodies that very afternoon, and give them Christian burial, which was the only thing they could really do for their lost comrades.

“What about those sailors?” asked Maurice, suddenly looking up.

“Oh, they must remain here until we can find some chance of sending them to Syra. In fact, I’m not sure if I won’t tell my agents to send me out another yacht to replace The Eunice, and then they can all ship on board of her.”

“You extravagant fellow; another yacht! Even twelve thousand a year will not stand such reckless use of money.”

“Oh, I won’t lose anything,” replied Crispin cheerfully. “I am not too much of a poet to neglect business, and The Eunice was heavily insured. When the money is paid by the underwriters, as it must be on my return to England, it will go a long way towards the purchase of another boat.”

“So much for the buying; but can you trust your agents to get you a yacht as good as the one you have lost?”

“Perhaps not in an ordinary case, but fortunately the twin ship to The Eunice is in the market, and resembles her in all respects. That was a few months ago, so if she is still to be had, I will instruct Danton & Slabe to purchase her on my behalf, and send her to the PirÆus. Then, when we are tired of Melnos, we can cross over to the mainland, and have a cruise up the Black Sea before returning to England.”

“That does not sound as if you were anxious to see Eunice,” said Maurice dryly.

“I will be very glad to see Eunice again,” answered Crispin, reddening slightly; “but the fact is, I have a small scheme in my head to get Eunice and her mother, in company with Mr. Carriston, to come out to Athens in my new yacht.”

“But with what idea?”

“Well,” said Crispin, looking down, “the fact is, Maurice, I do not trust your aunt.”

“As to that, I don’t blame you,” answered that lady’s affectionate nephew quietly.

“If she sees a better match for Eunice than I am,” resumed Crispin calmly, “she will force the poor child into a marriage, and give me the go-by. Mind you, Maurice, I love Eunice dearly, and in my eyes she is nearly perfect, but I cannot conceal from myself that she has a somewhat weak nature, and is dominated by her terrible mother. Once she is my wife, and away from that influence, she will learn to be more self-reliant, and less biassed by other people. Now, I see perfectly well that there is going to be trouble here about Caliphronas.”

“I agree with you there. Caliphronas evidently wants to marry Helena, who does not like him; and, moreover, Justinian refuses to favor the marriage in any marked degree, so Caliphronas is just the kind of sneaking scamp to go over to Alcibiades, and, if possible, make trouble.”

“If that is the case, we are here for some time, and as I see you take the same view of it as I do, you must perceive that we are here for some months. If, then, I am away from England all that time, Mrs. Dengelton will certainly try to persuade Eunice that I will not come back, and marry her to some one else. However, if I can get Eunice out here, I think I can trump Mrs. Dengelton’s best trick. Do you think, if I instruct my agents about the yacht, and write to Mrs. Dengelton and the Rector, that they will come out to Athens?”

“As to that, I am not sure,” replied Maurice slowly, “but I trust so, with all my heart, as I wish to ask the Rector’s advice.”

“So you mentioned before, and promised to ask mine. I will be delighted to give it to you, so tell me what is the matter. Helena?”

“Partly.”

“Hum! Caliphronas?”

“Partly.”

“Ho, ho! and Justinian?”

“Yes.”

“A very pretty trinity,” said Crispin, lighting a cigarette. “Well, what’s to do?”

Maurice tilted his chair back against the wall, and followed Crispin’s example with regard to tobacco, and prepared for a long talk on—to him—a serious subject, viz. the settlement of his future life in one way or the other.

“First of all,” said Maurice slowly, “I have been all over the village with Justinian, and I cannot tell you how amazed I am. That such a community, that such great works, should owe their origin to one man, is, I think, a miracle. This dream of Justinian’s regarding a new Hellas may or may not come to pass, but he has certainly laid the foundations of a small independent state in a wonderfully judicious manner. What his real name is, I, of course, do not know, but the one he has taken certainly suits him admirably; he is a Justinian—a born law-giver, and his system meets all the requirements of this simple community. As he says himself, so long as he is at the helm, things will go on all right, but should he die—which at his age is not unlikely—the success or failure of this infant intellectual state depends on his successor. A wise, clear-headed man will carry out the scheme to a successful issue; but a hot-tempered, selfish ruler would doom the whole thing to destruction. Justinian told me that he had brought up both you and Caliphronas as his successors; but as to yourself, you went in search of fame and love in England, and severed yourself entirely from his island community.”

“I did not know Justinian desired me to succeed him,” said Crispin in a tone of wonderment; “but even had I known, I hardly think things would have gone differently. I am a poet, not a ruler; and Napoleons are made of stronger stuff than mere bards piping their idle song, and letting the world go by. No; Justinian never hinted at such a thing; and I always thought that he favored Caliphronas as the heir to his island throne.”

“Caliphronas!” echoed Maurice in a tone of deep disdain. “No; Justinian is too keen a judge of character to mistake our Greek goose for a swan. He told me himself that he does not trust Caliphronas, and more than suspects him of having an understanding with that rascal Alcibiades regarding the capture of Melnos.”

“The deuce!”

“Yes; you may well be astonished; but, from what I have seen of Caliphronas, I believe it is quite likely to happen, the more so as this handsome Greek’s vanity will receive a severe blow when he is refused—as he certainly will be—by Helena. Well, you can see that Justinian will not have Caliphronas to succeed him on his island throne, so, you two candidates for the purple being thus disposed of”—

“Yes?” asked Crispin curiously, as Roylands hesitated.

“He wants me to ascend the throne when vacant.”

“You?”

“Myself! Are you not astonished?”

Crispin twirled his cigarette in his fingers, looked thoughtfully at the red tip as if consulting it as an oracle, and then made slow reply.

“Yes, and no. Justinian evidently sees in you a clear-headed man, who would carry out his scheme if you honorably promised to do so. He is English, you are English, and he trusts none but his own countrymen, so I cannot say that his offer to make you his successor startles me very much.”

“But, my dear Crispin, granted I have these capabilities you so kindly gift me with, of which I am doubtful, Justinian has only known me two days, and a clever man as he is could scarcely come to a conclusion so quickly.”

“Justinian is a good judge of character, and can tell the nature of a man in five minutes, where you or I would take five years in the search. Besides,” added the poet, with an imperceptible smile, “he may have another and stronger reason.”

“You mean Helena, I suppose?”

Now Crispin did not mean Helena at all; but as what he did allude to was not his own secret, he let Maurice believe that his supposition regarding Helena was the right one.

“Well, yes; I suppose Helena is a reason.”

“Do you think he would let me marry her?” asked Maurice breathlessly.

“I am certain he would,” answered Crispin, looking straight at his companion; “quite positive. But you—what about yourself?”

“I love her dearly.”

“Two days’ acquaintance—you love her dearly! Is that not rather sharp work?”

“Two days!” echoed Maurice contemptuously. “I have known her longer than that. I fell in love with her portrait, as you know, and resolved, if she had the qualities I thought she had from her face, I would marry her. From what I have seen of her, I am certain she has those qualities, and would make me a good wife, provided always she consents to marry me. Beautiful, pure, charming, simplicity itself; oh, my friend, she is indeed a prize I may think myself lucky in winning!”

“When a man is in love,” said Crispin intensively, “it is no use reasoning with him; and, as regards Helena, I quite approve of all you say. She will make you an admirable wife; but, think to yourself, how will this uncultured, simple girl look beside the cultured ladies of England?”

“That is the very point about which I desire to ask your and the Rector’s advice,” said Maurice eagerly. “Will I marry Helena, and accept the post of governing this island? or will I marry Helena, and go back to Roylands?”

“In any case, I see it is ‘marry Helena,’” rejoined his companion dryly; “but really I hardly know what to say. Life here is charming and indolent. You like charm and indolence, so why not stay here? On the other hand, you have your ancestral acres, your position in the world, to think of, and if you value these more than a life in this delightful Castle of Indolence—well, go back.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, I have given you my advice, and, as is usual in such cases, you will not take it.”

“It is such a difficult question.”

“Granted! but you will have to decide one way or the other shortly. One thing is certain, that it would be beneficial to your art.”

“That is true enough.”

“After all,” said Crispin seductively, “what better life can you desire? A ready-made kingdom, small and compact—a delightful climate—obedient subjects—a lotus-eating existence—and Helena!”

“It is delightful—but duty?”

“Oh!” cried Crispin, shrugging his shoulders, “of course, if you are going to invoke that bogie, I have nothing further to say. Ask the Rector.”

“What do you think he will say?”

Crispin burst out laughing, and, sauntering to the window, threw his burnt-out cigarette into the green grass beyond.

“Did ever any one hear such a man? My dear fellow, I cannot tell you what the Rector will say. He is an ardent Hellenist, with his Aristophanic studies, and may say, ‘Stay, by all means!’ On the other hand, he is an English Church clergyman, with strong opinions as to the absenteeism of landlords, and the duties they owe their tenants, in which case he will certainly make you come back. But in either event you will have your dear Helena.”

“I’m not so sure of that, Crispin. If I refuse Justinian’s request, he may refuse me Helena.”

“Certainly; that is not impossible,” replied Crispin, returning to his writing. “However, I will write to my agents about the yacht, to Mrs. Dengelton and the Rector about their joining us at Athens. At my invitation the Rector may not come, at yours he will.”

“Why?”

“Because you, my dear, simple old Maurice, are the apple of his eye; and if you write him on the question of your staying here, he will certainly hurry out at once, so as to see for himself how matters stand, and advise you for the best.”

“Will you write as you intend? and I will also send a letter to Carriston.”

“Don’t forget to enclose mine,” said Crispin warningly. “Remember you are to that extent responsible for my wooing with Eunice. Will you write your letter now?”

A delicious burst of girlish laughter sounded from the court.

“Helena!” cried Maurice, rising up so quickly as to upset his chair.

“Go away! go away!” said Crispin resignedly; “no chance of your writing now with that sound in your ears. But, as the boat does not go till to-morrow, you can have a holiday with Helena this afternoon; therefore, go away.”

“Caliphronas is with her,” said Maurice, hesitating.

“And has been all the morning. Faint heart never won fair lady, so if you don’t oust your rival, I am afraid she will be married by him under your nose.”

“I’m hanged if she will!” cried Maurice angrily.

There was a second burst of laughter, upon which Crispin, with raised eyebrows, shrugged his shoulders, pointed to the door, and resumed his writing.

Maurice paused irresolutely, looked at the poet, and then darted out of the door like a swallow, to find Helena standing alone in the court, with her arms full of flowers.

“I have been flower-hunting on the mountains,” said Helena graciously; “and this wild rose is for you.”